


The Freedom To Make My Own Mistakes Was All I Ever Wanted.

by Asukachan07



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After Three Prologues, All narrators are unreliable, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Between Episodes, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully didn’t die on screen, Canon Compliant Until 6x08 "No One", Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Rewrite: s06e09 Battle of the Bastard, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are Cousins, Jon and Sansa Remember, Mutual Pining, No abuse of beloved characters, No objective narration, Non-Graphic Violence, Or rather between scenes, POV Multiple, R Plus L Equals J | Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen are Jon Snow's Parents, READ THE FOLLOWING TAGS, Rickon Stark Lives, So let’s subvert expectations, Threats of Violence, aka they're not stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asukachan07/pseuds/Asukachan07
Summary: Varys asks Ned to serve the realm by proclaiming a bastard boy the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.He swallows his pride and does it.
Relationships: Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Lyanna Mormont & Rickon Stark, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark & Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, Tormund Giantsbane & Jon Snow
Comments: 124
Kudos: 134





	1. What of your daughter's life, my lord? Is that a precious thing to you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue 1 - POV Ned Stark : 1x09 "Baelor"

"What of your daughter's life, my Lord?" Varys asked Ned. "Is that a precious thing to you?"

Sansa.

Oh, sweet Sansa. What had he done? He should've never betrothed her to a Baratheon. Had he learned nothing from the past? 

Starks belonged in the North for they were direwolves. They belonged in the woods, in open space where they could run free with their pack, not in a city where a treacherous blade could seal their fate.

But was it not Ned himself who had put down Sansa's direwolf?

Lady was dead, aye, but...there was a spare. A direwolf with fur whiter than Sansa's porcelain skin, and with eyes redder than her fiery hair.

"Lord Varys...Lord Varys!" His voice caught in his throat the first time around, thus he had to repeat himself before the last flicker of torch light disappeared around the corner.   
  


As the master of whispers’s shadow appeared in Ned’s peripheral vision, his heart started beating uncontrollably.

Would he dare? The boy would never forgive him. Lyanna would've never forgiven what he’d done! He had promised!

He would've done things differently today, of course, but at the time he had gone along with the rumors. It had seemed simpler that way, for he had preferred calling his own friend king. He’d been young, only a few years older than Robb was now. Oh, Robb, no. No...

Waging a war against the Iron Throne ruled by the hated Mad King was very different from waging a war against the Iron Throne ruled by the Lannisters. Lannisters were turncoats, oathbreakers, murderers of innocent women and children! Ned should've insisted Robert punish them long ago!

Or better, he should've punished them himself. If he'd accepted his role as a leader, if he'd proclaimed himself Lord Regent of the heir to the Iron Throne...it was too late for ifs.

It was not too late for Sansa. And Arya, wherever she was now. Safe, she had to be safe. She had her sword and Syrio Forel had reported that she was an exceptional student.

And after wondering for moons who had been brazen enough to have Mikken forge that rapier, Ned knew beyond certainty that it had been Jon. Jon must have taught Arya with the bow as well. He could never refuse her anything. He could never refuse his younger siblings anything. The truth might make him hate Ned but he wouldn’t extend his hatred to his family. He loved them all.

"Did you have a change of heart?" Varys asked once he returned by Ned's side, peering at him skeptically. 

Ned was just as skeptical, but he wouldn’t lie. He would do what honor demanded, and honor demanded that the Seven Kingdoms be ruled by the true heir to the Iron Throne.

"You want me to serve the realm," Ned paraphrased him, "to declare a bastard boy my king and have my son Robb lay down his sword?"

Varys looked at him expectantly, and he hesitated.

What if Jon turned against House Stark? What if he abandoned his siblings, abandoned the North and went east?

"For your daughter, my lord," the master of whispers reiterated.

Sansa...oh, no. She hadn't been kind to Jon like Ned's other children, had she? She had emulated Cat. But Jon was a good lad, and he had tried a few times to endear himself to her. It had been years...but he’d only stopped because of Cat, hadn’t he? He cared for Sansa too, Ned was sure of it.

It did not change the fact that Jon would feel betrayed. He was a boy still, same as Robb. His emotions would run high, and without an anchor, with no place to belong, why would he grant Ned his wish? Why wouldn’t he go to his aunt instead? No one in Essos would punish him for deserting the Night’s Watch. He would be trueborn and the head of his small great house. Thankfully Daenerys Targaryen was already married and with child or—

Marriage. 

Ned had promised Sansa to find her a better match than Joffrey. Someone brave, gentle and strong. What if he gifted Jon not just with a crown, but also a queen? Sansa was the perfect lady, a loyal betrothed. And she was a Stark. What better way for Jon to join the family he'd wanted to belong than through marriage?

Sansa would be cross with Ned, but the circumstances were forcing his hand. He had to rely on Rhaegar’s son to help. Robb couldn’t win the war: he was a green boy, he didn’t have the numbers, and if by some miracle he proved a great warrior, the Lannisters would eventually resort to treachery to ensure their victory.

Jon was just as green, but he needed not fight. He only needed to retrieve the proof of his parentage from the crypts and verify his mother's marriage with the Citadel, and Cat would do the rest.

Cat would know to put her feelings aside and do everything to protect her family. She was born a Tully: family came first, then duty, and honor came last.

But she was Lady Stark now; her father was Lord Tully; her sister was Lady Arryn; she knew that the Tyrells had been loyal to House Targaryen to the bitter end, Ned himself had told her; House Martell hated Rhaegar but might declare for his son. After all, Jon would demand retribution for his true half-siblings’ murder, ordered by the Lannisters; and maybe Stannis would declare for Jon in the name of justice and honor, but his support wouldn’t be needed if the five other kingdoms rallied behind Jaehaerys Targaryen. If the gods were good, by the time Jon reached King’s Landing Stannis would’ve defeated the Lannisters.

But then what would happen to Sansa?

"What guarantee do I have that no harm will come to Sansa after I kneel to Joffrey?" Ned asked Varys. 

"Cersei is a reasonable woman...as long as her children's safety is in fact guaranteed first," the eunuch stated cautiously.

An empty promise, Ned knew. Stannis was the greatest threat to the safety of Cersei's children, Varys had said so himself. And for just reason: Robert's brother was closer to King's Landing than Robb or Tywin Lannister. He was closer than Jon.

But Ned had to try. For Sansa. Arya was resourceful and fierce. She would find her way home. But Sansa was defenseless.

Ned didn't know how to make the masters of spies help him without being dishonest.

He had never told a lie, at least none of consequence. A tale to appease a sulking child, a pinched smile or frown to omit the truth to his lady wife? Aye, he'd done that. But he'd never spoken a lie.

Others had spoken lies for him.

Those had been the same soldiers with whom he'd learned to die. By the time he'd returned from war to Winterfell, they had made him the passive author of multiple lies.

Howland had claimed that he had bested Ser Arthur Dayne;

Robert had declared that after abducting and raping her, Rhaegar had killed Lyanna;

His bannermen had speculated that he'd fathered the newborn baby in his arms with Wylla, a whore who'd followed the northern army south and back.

Wylla had given birth to a stillborn whom wasn't Ned's, but her bosom had been heavy with milk. Ned had simply needed a wet nurse.

The rumor that he was bringing his natural son home had preceded him to Winterfell, and by the time he'd reached the castle Catelyn had already howled the lie far and wide in the North.

Ned's reputation had never suffered for those lies spoken by others, but now his honesty had branded him a traitor to the crown.

The gods were punishing him, weren't they? They were punishing him for betraying his sister, for betraying his true king. His own nephew.

"I wish to send a message to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," he requested, deciding to start with the truth. "Jeor Mormont is a man of honor."

"So have I heard myself," Varys acknowledged with a shallow nod.

Ned swallowed. Once, twice. He looked away from the light, and still found himself incapable of speaking the lie.

He couldn't.

This wasn't him. He’d rather die with honor than speak a single—wait.

What if he didn't have to say anything? What if he wrote it, and rather than lie, disguised the truth as a lie?   
  


The truth was unlikely to be read if he coded the message. The odds wouldn't be favorable to Ned’s family, and the outcome might worsen the circumstances...

The gods would decide. The laws of men had already been disrespected, so Ned would submit to the gods’ judgement.

"Robb will not listen to any order from me," he warned Varys. "He knows that any request I make now is made under duress."

He waved one hand around, encompassing the cavernous space of his dungeon cell.

Varys pursued his lips in acknowledgment.

"But if I ask Lord Commander Mormont to convince my son that your solution is the best for all of us," he explained, forcing himself to look Varys in the eyes. "And if I command my brother and natural son to convince Robb as well...then there's a greater chance that Cersei will have peace from House Stark."

"A clever plan, Lord Stark," the eunuch approved, his shoulders dropping in relief. "A pity that you didn’t have a clever plan to confront Cersei from the start. The Realm was thriving under your leadership."

He bent down to carefully place the torch on the floor, and to Ned's astonishment proffered quill, ink and paper.

Ned almost made the mistake to take them too eagerly, but showed restraint and hesitation.

"My daughter, Lord Varys," he said after pulling the stopper from the tube of ink. "Promise me that you will ensure her safety, whatever happens to me."

"I promise to do everything in my power to ensure her safety," the eunuch worded his vow carefully. "So long as you do everything in yours to serve the realm."

Ned looked the bald man in the eyes, took a calming breath...and spoke the truth.

"I truly regret denying the boy his birthright. If you have this letter delivered to Castle Black in its authenticity and if my instructions are followed, the boy shall be king as per his mother's wish. I only ask that my daughter's life be spared."

Varys lifted his eyebrows, no doubt surprised to see honesty in Ned’s eyes.

"Write, my lord," he advised urgently. "Time is of essence."

With a slightly shaky hand for he knew that everything depended on the gods now, Ned dipped the quill in the ink and started writing.

Benjen would recognize the runes of the Old Tongue, which Ned was spreading throughout the letter. Ned had taught him the script, himself having learned it from his old friend Yohn when he was fostered by Jon Arryn at the Eyrie.

In all of the realm, House Royce was the only house descending from the First Men to still learn the language of their ancestors. Yohn had only taught Ned the script, not the dialect, which had been modified several times after the Andals invasion.

Ned had been surprisingly pleased to feel such a deep connection to his northern roots whilst living south of the Neck and learning southern customs, which at the time he'd thought superfluous.

He'd been glad for his lessons in southern customs when he'd married Brandon's betrothed, and now he was glad for teaching the runes to Benjen.

Benjen was unlikely to be at Castle Black when Jeor Mormont received the letter considering the increased sightings of wildlings...but Benjen had taught the script to Jon.

It hadn’t been enough for Jon to fully read it at age eleven. Jon himself had told Ned so, approaching him when Cat was bedridden, her condition delicate during her first months of carrying Rickon in her womb.

The boy had shyly confessed that he wished to be taught properly, that his uncle Benjen never stayed long enough for him to improve...and with his eyes he had begged Ned to teach him instead.

When the boy had lingered despite the silence answering his unspoken request, Ned had pointed out that no one in the North used the script and thus it was obsolete. Jon had never again brought up the subject.

And now Ned was counting on him not only to remember what he'd learned over five years ago, but also to have improved on his own. Ned was counting on the boy to understand something which he'd never taught him...because he wasn't a Stark.

And as his hand remained shaky,Ned ended the code by asking Jon to give away the only gift he'd received out of sentiment rather than duty. The gift was not an object but a companion, a direwolf which had made Jon feel recognized as Ned’s son. But he wasn't, so Ghost should become Sansa's.

Was everything happening now the gods' retribution for Ned’s actions, after all? Or rather, retribution for his inactions? His friend and king was already dead, his men and servants slaughtered. Why would the gods punish his innocent children as well?

Robb, Robb...would he swallow his pride and bend the knee to his bastard brother, who was in fact his trueborn cousin?

"There, have your peace," Ned said to Varys with cynicism. Or was it sarcasm?

For if Jon was somehow allowed to read the letter himself, if he somehow decoded the message, and if he was somehow allowed to leave the Night’s Watch to do as Ned advised him...only to fully embrace his Targaryen identity, Varys would not get his peace.

Direwolves could be tamed, aye; Lady had been as docile as a dog and it seemed that Ghost was too.

But dragons were wild beasts. They didn’t belong in the realm unless they were chained. If Jon learned the truth and that truth set free the dragon that Ned had chained through the boy’s upbringing...Varys would not get his peace.

He would get fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Prologue 2 - POV Sam Tarly : 5x10 "Mother’s Mercy"


	2. To your return. To my return!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue 2 - POV Sam Tarly: 5x10 "Mother's Mercy"
> 
> Sam leaves Jon with a heavy heart...and a letter carrying a secret message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! I'm writing everything from my phone so replies will be slow coming and on the short side. 
> 
> Tags reminder: the 3 prologues aka Ch 1, 2 and 3 are "in between" scenes and are canon-compliant until 6x08. The first episode re-write will be Ch 4, changing the events of 6x09 "Battle of the Bastards."

"To your return," Jon toasted, and the resignation in his eyes broke Sam's heart.

"To my return," Sam responded as he clanked his cup against Jon's and both drank the terrible ale.

As a companionable silence settled between them, Sam looked inside his cup, wondering if he should tell Jon about Lord Stark's letter.

Maester Aemon had forbidden him to, but that had been before Jon had become the Lord Commander. Sam felt terrible for forgetting about the letter in the first place, which he’d read over a year ago.

In his defense, Sam hadn’t known until a few days ago that the letter could've potentially swayed Jon’s decision to accept Stannis’ offer from last moon turn.

Potentially. Sam couldn’t tell, or rather he couldn’t read.

He knew that reading his father’s letter would break Jon’s heart. How could it not, once he realized that his siblings could've been alive if Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had waited just a few days before taking the great ranging party beyond the Wall? 

As Jon's friend, Sam thought that Jon deserved to know anyway. He deserved to know that his lord father had thought about him in the end. Obviously Lord Stark had thought about his entire family, but he’d counted on Jon to make his heir see reason. Unlike Sam’s own father, Lord Stark had been confident in his son’s strength of character.

There was no doubt that Lord Stark would've been proud of Jon for becoming a leader of his own right. He wasn't born to be the lord of Winterfell, but being chosen as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch wasn't too bad, was it?

And Sam hadn't been surprised that Jon would be able to see past the deep hatred between the Night's Watch and the wildlings in order to see the bigger picture, just like Lord Stark had been able to put his feelings aside for the sake of peace in the realm. 

Half of the brothers or the Night's Watch hated Jon for brokering peace with their sworn enemies, but when the time came to defend the realms of men from the White Walkers, they would be grateful for the thousands of extra men helping man the Wall.

"You're quiet," Jon accused Sam with the hint of a fond smile. "Something on your mind?"

"In truth? Yes," Sam answered, because he had to know. "I'm glad that you're the Lord Commander now, you deserve it..."

"Of course you'd think that," Jon argued with a quiet scoff.

"But as the Lord of Winterfell you could've done more, right?" Sam pointed out. "With the entire North at your command—"

"The North only knows one king, whose name is Stark," Jon said with a wistful smile before taking a sip of his ale. "That was the Lady Lyanna Mormont's response to Stannis' demand that her house bend the knee."

"Lyanna Mormont?" Sam repeated. "Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's niece? Why would she be the one writing back to Stannis? She's the youngest of...five daughters, isn't she? She's only—"

"Ten years of age, aye," Jon confirmed with a quiet chuckle. "I suppose that she's yet to learn the Northern way of using silence to spite outsiders."

"Oh?" Sam reacted, not sure he understood where Jon was going with that comment.

"Even if I'd wanted to forsake my vows as a brother of the Night's Watch, the Northern lords and ladies would've never accepted me after I kneeled to a southern king," Jon explained as if he'd heard his thought. "The Iron Throne has wronged House Stark twice in consecutive generations. The North remembers. Robb...king Robb was the last Stark to rule the North. His successor must wear a crown too."

Oh. Sam supposed that it was a logical wish for Northerners to have...but if they were so fiercely loyal to House Stark, wouldn't they prefer to be ruled by a Stark in any capacity over being ruled by turncoats like the Boltons?

"And that successor is Arya," Jon declared firmly. "She’s out there, Sam. I know it in my bones."

"But...she’s a lady?" Sam pointed out.

"She’d deny that," Jon told him with a fond huff. "And I think that an exception could be made. If Bear Island can be ruled by women, then the North can be ruled by a Lady of Winterfell. If I remember correctly, the Barrowlands have been ruled by Lady Dustin for as long as I've been alive, too. Arya looks as much like Lord Stark as I do, and she’s a true Stark. Winterfell should be hers, not mine."

A moment of silence, then Jon took another sip of his ale then looked inside the nearly empty cup.

"And if I were to claim Winterfell, Lady Stark’s ghost would murder me during my first night in the lord’s chambers."

Sam almost spit out his ale.

"You believe in ghosts?" He immediately asked, giggling at his friend’s unexpected superstitious belief. "They don’t exist, Jon, it’s all stories to make children..."

He blinked bashfully as Jon stared at him unblinking with a raised eyebrow.

"Right," Sam said with a nod of acknowledgement, then he tried to steer the conversation back to the Starks.

He wanted to be sure that Jon had truly made peace cutting all ties with his family. Only then could he let the matter of the letter go.   
  


"It’s my first time hearing you mention Lady Stark," he realized. "I didn’t...I thought that you didn’t like her very much."

"She’s the one who hated me," Jon corrected him.

"Wasn’t the feeling mutual?" Sam asked without thinking, earning a skeptical look from his friend. "Sorry, curious. You know me."

Jon looked away, towards the back wall of the room. It was facing south. Towards Winterfell.

"I wanted her to like me...so much," he admitted, his voice breaking, and Sam’s chest tightened at the way Jon’s features softened in sadness.

Right then, he looked more like a boy than the man he had become.

"Everyone in the castle loved her," Jon recounted, "because she cared about everyone in return. And when she cared, she showed it. Not just with fleeting smiles and praises, no. She used her hands, all the time. She sewed clothes, cloaks and blankets, mostly for her husband and her children; but she occasionally sewed for other members of the household, mostly chambermaids and scullery maids. Scarves, shawls, stockings. And I remember her making colorful ribbons for Sansa’s pony. For a horse. But she never gave me anything."

He scoffed, downed the remainder of his ale, then slowly lowered the cup back down on the table.

"There was this...wheel, a toy she crafted for Robb," he added, looking and sounding bashful. "She made one for Bran as well, after his fall. Suppose's for when he woke up."

Woah, did he just...? "Suppose's for when?" He wasn't drunk enough for his speech to suffer like that.

Sam had noted that lately, Jon occasionally spoke like a lowborn. Well, he wasn't highborn to start with, but he used to be like one. Sam knew that his speech hadn't been affected by his interactions with their lowborn brothers. It had been the other way around: Edd, Pyp and Grenn's grammar and word choices had improved over time thanks to Jon and Sam's passive influence.

It was Jon's time with the wildlings which had changed his speech, obviously.

"...like that when you were a little boy?" Jon was asking, oops.

"Sorry, like what?" Sam asked after taking a quick sip of ale. 

"The wheel toy," Jon answered with a curious frown. "The one Lady Stark made for Robb and Bran."

"A prayer wheel, you mean?" Sam corrected him, and when Jon frowned in confusion, "it’s not a toy, Jon. Mothers make it for their children when they’re sick or in danger. It’s to ask for the gods’ protection. The New Gods, I mean. The Seven, though no one prays to the Stranger. Definitely not a mother asking for her child's protection."

Jon’s eyes went wide.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"I played with the one she made for Robb," Jon confessed after swallowing audibly. "For a year or two, whenever I was alone. I kept it hidden in a chest...I thought it was a toy. Robb must have brought it into my room when we were very young, because I don’t remember how it got there."

Oh. Well, he'd been a child, a boy. Dickon had borrowed Sam's toys and he didn’t mind, then or now. It was normal.

"I...I never returned it," Jon confessed bashfully. "I thought it was a toy, and Lady Stark gave Robb so many gifts already, I hoped that neither would notice that one missing. They didn't, but...all this time, I played with a praying wheel?! Something meant for gods I don’t worship?"

"Don’t you worry," Sam reassured him with a light pat on his lax hand lying on the table, hoping to assuage his friend’s panic. "If your brother Robb was well enough to take it along with him into your room, then the prayer wheel had already served its purpose."

Jon looked skeptical.

"Lady Stark would’ve looked for it if it hadn't, believe me," Sam reassured him. "You didn’t anger any gods, Jon."

That was what he believed, didn't he? That all the terrible things that had happened to his family was the work of vengeful gods?

It did feel like it to Sam, too. It wasn't fair that good people like the Starks had suffered so, and not for the first time. The Northerners were justified in their distrust for Southerners. Everything had been well until Starks went South.

Jon twisted his cup this way and that, and Sam knew that he was about to hear words Jon had never spoken to anyone else. This entire conversation felt like a confession to a septon. For days Sam had entertained serving the Faith rather than the Night's Watch, just so he could stay in the South close to his mother, Dickon and Talla. But not only did septons make vows of chastity, they made vows of poverty! And they fasted for days for specific rituals and what not. No, thanks. Anyway, Sam’s father had wanted him as far away from home as possible.

So there he was, and he felt at once honored for Jon's trust, and terribly guilty for keeping a secret from him in return. But it was clear that the hidden message didn't matter any longer. Sam should burn the scroll, after all.

The reason why he hadn't been allowed to talk about Lord Stark's letter to Jon was that it had spposedly been for the eyes of the Lord Commander only, and his murder meant that it fell on Maester Amon to know the content of the scroll.

  
When Sam had first read the letter to the blind maester, he'd silently wept for Jon, for the letter had been addressed not only to the Lord Commander but also to First Ranger Benjen Stark and to Jon himself. The last two had been missing, and thus couldn’t carry out their brother and father’s last wish.

Sam had lamented the fact that Jon could’ve helped his family without forsaking his vows!

  
By the time Jon had miraculously returned to the Night's Watch, his brother had been dead for weeks and the Boltons had usurped House Stark as Wardens of the North.

  
Sam had thought that the gods were finally smiling upon Jon when Stannis had offered to legitimize him, but Jon had turned down the opportunity to realize his biggest dream.

  
It was only after Jon had left for Eastwatch-by-the-sea with Edd and the wildlings that Sam had remembered the letter. He’d later found it after cleaning Maester Aemon’s office. Since Jon had refused to forsake his vows to become a Stark, it had been safe for Sam to assume that the letter wouldn't have mattered anyway, not in a positive way at least. It would've only reminded Jon of the family he’d lost. Seeing Lord Stark’s shaky penmanship would no doubt be painful, too.

  
Sam had thus decided to burn the scroll, but it was while hesitantly holding the letter above the fire in the hearth that he’d realized that Lord Stark’s penmanship had been impeccable after all.

In the shadows of the fire light, the words were unreadable...but what Sam had taken for the calligraphy mishaps of a man under duress had ended up being symbols placed very meticulously on the parchment.

  
If one pretended that the words didn’t exist, the false starts and ink stains...or rather angled lines and dots, were arranged in several rectangular patterns. Sam couldn’t decode the message, but he’d seen a similar arrangement of symbols before. It had been many years ago, when he was a boy enthusiastically learning the sigils of all southern houses known for military strength. 

  
House Royce of Runestone was one such house. Its sigil was a shower of pebbles on an orange field, surrounded by runes. The runes of the Old Tongue, the language of the First Men!

  
To think that Sam had believed that ancient language obsolete since the Andals invasion! But the Andals had never invaded the North, had they? Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, First Ranger Benjen Stark and Jon...they were all Northmen. Did all Northerners speak the Old Tongue, or was it just the members of House Stark who could?

  
It didn't matter any longer, at least not to Jon. He'd made his decision to severe his ties with House Stark for good. But maybe...what about Lady Arya? Shouldn't Sam keep the letter in case she resurfaced? Lord Stark's letter could be meaningful to her. 

"I didn't care about gods, then," Jon's admission brought Sam out of his musings. "When I was a boy. When I'd see Lady Stark wrap her arms around a grieving chambermaid, or when she'd praise Jeyne Poole for her manners, or when she'd reprimand the stable boys' for their recklessness all the while helping Maester Luwin bandage their wounds..."

He trailed off, but Sam didn't need him to finish his incomplete sentence: that he didn't care about gods because all he’d wanted at the time was for Lady Stark to care for him too. 

Everyone in the castle had loved her, that's what Jon had said earlier. Sam knew that not everyone in Horn Hill loved his lady mother...because of him. Lady Tarly spoke harshly at the servants who mocked Sam. They could mock Sam in front of their lord, who would add to their insults rather than reprimand them. But the lady of the castle would punish those who dared mistreat her firstborn. The punishments weren’t harsh, just more chores to get done, but of course no one appreciated that.

"Sounds like Lady Stark was quite the woman," Sam commented before he could lose himself in thoughts of his own birth family.

Gilly and Little Sam were his family too, now, and Sam was just realizing that...since Horn Hill was on the way, he should leave Gilly and Little Sam there. It would be better than taking them to Old Town. If he told his mother that Gilly's son was his, she would take very good care of both. Sam's father wouldn't mind having one more boy in the family as long as he didn’t know that the boy and his mother were wildlings. They would be safe.

"She was," Jon confirmed with an ephemeral smile. "She was a proper lady but she didn't shy away from dirt or blood, and she could match a sailor's volume when she yelled at people, even Lord Stark. She was...passionate, both in her love for her children and her care for the people...and in her hatred for me. She didn't stop hating me even after I announced that I was taking the black. She couldn’t wait for me to leave Winterfell."  
  


Sam winced, because he knew all too well how that felt. His own lord father would’ve thrown him out of Horn Hill if he hadn’t tried to keep up appearances for his lady wife.

"She was a beautiful woman too...with blue eyes and long red hair."

Sam took a sip of his ale before Jon's words registered...then he sprayed the table with it.

"What!?" He nearly shouted whilst Jon scowled at his mess. "You cannot tell me that...that's why you loved her?"

Jon's wildling lover, what had been her name? Ygritte, yes. It was Tormund who'd said it, not Jon himself.

Until Jon had gently placed Ygritte on a pile of wildling corpses to be burnt, it hadn't occurred to Sam that Jon's lover had been a warrior.

A cruel, ruthless warrior. She and the Thenns had wiped out Olly's village. Ygritte had killed Olly's own father! And she'd attacked Mole Town too. Gilly had recognized her and had told Sam that Ygritte had spared her and Little Sam. Sam was under no illusion that Ygritte would've been so kind if she hadn't identified Gilly as a wildling like herself. The other mothers and children of Mole Town could attest to that...if they could talk after death. 

Sam wasn't happy, but rather pacified that it was Olly who had killed Ygritte during the battle, saving Jon's life in the process. It felt like justice for his father, his village, and for the people of Mole Town. Good lad. 

Jon himself agreed, for he'd rewarded Olly for his bravery by making him his stewart, just like Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had done for him.

"I don't know," Jon lied blatantly, then amended, "I loved her for who she was herself in the end, but...she was passionate, was pretty and had long red hair. That’s all I knew when I decided to spare her life, and then she saved mine from the other Free Folks. She definitely wasn't what I'd dreamed my wife to be like. Growing up I knew that I'd never marry a lady, yet I wanted a wife like Lady Catelyn because it was what my father had. What Robb was supposed to have too. Instead he married some foreign woman from the Free Cities, a woman with nothing to her name. I can't imagine Lady Stark allowing him to make such a terrible mistake...or maybe I should imagine it. Robb was a king, after all."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, confused.

"When I told Mance Rayder that he was making a terrible mistake by refusing to kneel to Stannis so he could save his people...he told me that all he'd ever wanted was to be free to make his own mistakes. I suppose that’s why he deserted the Night’s Watch and became a Free Man."

"Oh," Sam reacted, understanding downing on him. "Is that why they call themselves the Free Folk? I kept wondering, because physically they were trapped between the Night's Watch and the White Walkers for thousands of years. But this theory has merit."

"It's not a theory it's the truth," Jon argued sharply, his brow pinched as he looked Sam in the eyes. "I didn't live with them long enough to understand that before I came back. It wasn't until I saw all of us watch Mance burn and do nothing about his agony that I understood. The Free Folk couldn't help their king because they were our prisoners, but what was our excuse?"

"He was our enemy?" Sam argued weakly.

In truth the only enemy he’d wish such a gruesome death was the army of wights.

"You would burn your enemy alive?" Jon challenged, unimpressed.

"Stannis had thousands of soldiers under his command!" Sam blurted out. "I didn't think it wise to antagonize him. I'm proud of you for doing what was right, Jon. I am. This is yet another reason why you're a great leader!"

"So you admit it, that we weren't free to do what was right despite our claim to be neutral when it comes to matters of the realm?" Jon asked.

"I suppose, yes," Sam conceded unhappily.

"That's the main reason why I refused Stannis' offer," Jon admitted. "Because he's not my king, just like he isn't the Northern lords and ladies' king. He isn't fighting for what I believe in. I swore vows, Sam. You, Grenn and Pyp helped me uphold them. I'm not abandoning my post."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Abandoning my post?" Sam had to ask.

As terrible as it was of him as a friend to keep the existence of Lord Stark's letter secret from Jon, it was justifiable in the context of his vows. But if Jon found him unworthy of his trust as a brother of the Night's Watch...

Jon reached out with his hand and gripped Sam's shoulder.

"If I believed that you were deserting I wouldn't be letting you go, would I?" He asked rhetorically, one corner of his mouth lifting.

"Right," Sam replied, letting out a sharp sigh of relief.

Jon gripped his shoulder a little tighter before letting go and smiling properly at him.

"You, Samwell Tarly, gave me the power to do what I thought, what I still think is right: fighting the White Walkers and their army of wights. They’re the real enemy, especially their leader. I wouldn’t call him the real king beyond the Wall, but he has the airs of a king...of sorts. Anyway, we are as prepared for the war to come as we could be thanks to you. And...you gave me a title when I was born with nothing to my name. I'm a lord now, of my own choosing. Thank you."

"You deserve it," Sam reiterated.

"I'm not just letting you go to the Citadel because your training will help us all in the long run," Jon declared, his dark eyes bearing into Sam's soul. "I'm letting you go because becoming a maester is what you want. Unlike me, you didn't want to come here: your father forced you to join the Night's Watch. You don't belong with the rest of us bastards, disgraced knights and petty criminals. You belong in a place where you can read and learn to your heart's content. I'm glad I can give you that, albeit temporarily."

He stood up and nodded.

"So go," he encouraged him, his voice solemn. "Go to the Citadel and become the great man you are meant to be."

Sam nodded, and he stood in turn.

He didn't care that his tears blurred his vision as he stepped closer to wrap his arms around his friend. Around his brother.

Yes, he was Jon's family now, not the Starks. Wherever Lady Sansa and Lady Arya were at present, Sam wished them the best. They just would have to find a way to survive then thrive without Jon’s help.

"You better come back, alright?" Jon told him in jest when they stepped away from each other. "I do need your counsel. And someone whom I know doesn't hate me."

"I've pledged my life to the Night's Watch," Sam re-lied seriously. "For this night and all the nights to come. My true watch has just started."

* * *

"The Night king," Sam delibrated after exchanging tight embraces with Jon and Edd.

"What?" The latter reacted.

"Jon said that the White Walkers' leader is a king of sort," Sam explained under Jon's curious gaze. "But that he wasn’t the real king beyond the Wall. He’s trying to bring his reign of terror to the realms of men. And since everything is more terrifying at night...the Night King. We must give our enemy a name, especially for the sake of those who still think that the wildlings are our enemies."

"You're right," Jon acknowledged. "Good thinking, Sam."

"Speaking of good thinking," Sam said, struggling not to lower his eyes and head in shame.

"I have places to be," Edd lied to avoid the uncomfortable moment.

Sam waited for them to be alone by the door of the Lord Commander’s chambers, and Jon waited patiently with him.

"I remembered that," Sam started slowly, then rushed to say "Stannis mentioned ores of dragonglass in Dragonstone."

"Oh," Jon reacted, blinking in surprise before smiling. "That’s great, Sam! You bringing up the subject to Stannis was good thinking too. See? Now I don’t want to let you go."

They both laughed, then Sam walked away

After he joined Gilly and Little Sam on the wagon, he looked at Jon, who clearly hadn’t expected him to see his forlorn expression. Sam back to raise his hand in goodbye, and Jon returned the gesture in a tired and defeated manner.

Sam knew better than to linger and speak words of reassurance. Time was of essence, so he urged the horse forward.

And whilst he was riding through the North, ruled by usurpers, he paid attention to the Northerners’ speech...only to realize that no one spoke the Old Tongue. So, only a select few could decrypt Lord Stark’s hidden message. Sam decided not to assume that Lady Arya could.

Therefore, whenever she returned to the North, he would have the cypher ready for her. After all, there were books about the Old Tongue at the Citadel. He could learn the ancient language himself, along with more practical foreign languages. What was the chain metal for linguistics? He didn’t know yet. 


	3. He died, fighting my lord.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue 3 - POV Brynden Tully: 6x08 "No One"

"He died, fighting my lord," Hos spoke as if he had a toad stuck in his throat. 

At least his voice was steady.

Brynden waited for the Kingslayer to ask for his body. The Blackwood soldier by his side stopped breathing.

Nothing. That one-handed incestuous fool said nothing. Hos' awkward steps in the heavy armor resonating gradually louder on the stone indicated that the disgraced knight had dismissed him without further questioning.

Unbelievable!

The Blackwood soldier exhaled very quietly when his lord rounded the corner, looking less gangly than usual. Maybe it was because it was so dark.

Brynden silently signaled the two younger men to follow him. He almost drew his sword when three Lannisters soldiers sprung up out of nowhere, but they were other Blackwood soldiers in disguise. In fact, they had to be those who'd helped Brynden get inside his own armor in record time.

They followed his lead down to the drawbridge, refusing to split because Hos shook his head. They were in Brynden's home but ultimately the Blackwood soldiers obeyed the lad. So be it.

As they got closer to the gate, Brynden's left fingers kept his sword hovering a few inches out of its scabbard. He expected the inane strategy to prove itself inane and was ready to die fighting Westerlanders as planned.

But no one stopped them. Half a platoon was acting contrary to the general order, walking in the opposite direction to everyone else...and no one did anything!

In truth, one soldier mumbled "watch where ya goin', dunce!" when Hos bumped into him. But nothing else.

Once they were out in the open they did obey Brynden's hand gestures to break out and take different routes to the rear of the camp. There were a few lieutenants barking orders here and there, and those would notice their odd behavior.

Halfway towards the rear, the old soldier spotted a hitching post. He whistled so many times to get the others' attention that he drew his sword, expecting detection this time.

The first Blackwood soldier to join him pointed to the side. After squinting his eyes in confusion for a few heartbeats, Brynden nodded in acknowledgment, grateful for the younger man's sharper vision and sensible idea to take off his sight-limiting helmet.

There were enemy soldiers seated in a circle near boulders, which had hidden their small fire from Brynden's sight.

They were chatting and laughing, uncaring for what was happening around them. From the sound of it, they were using a drinking game to determine who would be the first to lie with some whore in some tavern of their common village once they returned home.

Those were the likes whose blades would've taken Brynden's life? His blood boiled with outrage at the idea, even after his group made sure that the whore in question would never have to entertain those fools.

The horses they stole were the only ones who knew that something was amiss in this camp of idiots. Those horses stopped fussing once they realized that their riders could safely guide them in the dark, unlike Lannister soldiers who didn't know the terrain.

Once they were out of range of any patrol, Bryden said a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking for forgiveness for he was fleeing from his enemy yet again. The Father and Mother would understand.

He was a Tully. Family came first, honor last. He was ashamed to have been reminded that family were people, not a place, by the woman whom dearest Cat had tasked to protect her daughter.

He'd believed that it was too late for him. Night had fallen thus he'd lost his safe passage agreement. And he couldn't go with Lady Brienne and her squire because they needed a head start to row away to safety. His last stand would've given them the time to get out of range of sharp-eyed archers.

But when he'd run up the stairs of the Water Gate, wondering how Lannister soldiers knew of it...he'd stood face to face with Hos in a Lannister armor, one of his disguised soldiers finishing to tie up his sword belt. At the quiet order of their lord, three undisguised Rivermen had rushed Brynden into his another pilfered Lannister armor.

As his heartbeat and breathing finally returned to normal in the fresh air of the plains he knew so well, Brynden acknowledged for the second time—silently of course—that Hoster 'Hos' Blackwood was a resourceful young man despite his abysmal swordsmanship. Or maybe because of it? It truly was a shame that he was such a pitiful fighter, for he had the sharp mind of a war general.

Robb Stark had been exceptional in that regard but clearly he had not been the exception. That was a relief. The new generation of rightful leaders must be as brazen as those despicable Lannisters if honor and justice were to prevail and peace and prosperity restored to the realm.

Brynden belonged to the old generation, one that unfortunately lacked the imagination to survive tumultuous times under unprecedented circumstances. With the laws of gods and men trampled and the rules of both war and politics changed overnight, an old soldier like him felt overwhelmed by the enemy. A trout couldn't be asked to jump out of familiar rivers into the crashing waves of the sea without resistance. 

He hadn't dared hope that the realm would recover from its many wars just because Tywin Lannister was dead. After all, that conniving lion had outlived all the great men who could've opposed him.

It was with humility that the Blackfish now recognized that he had overlooked the fact that noble houses weren't made of just men, or rather of just military leaders. He'd overlooked the women and the men lacking military skills. It was a good thing that they hadn't waited for his approval to take matters in their own hands.

Brynden had heard of Lord Tarth's peculiar daughter in passing, but seeing her in person had effectively changed his perspective of the world. Well done, Cat! And Cat's daughter too! Reclaiming her birth name and ancestral home after not one but two marriages? That was unheard of!

Though the North was different, wasn't it? Maege Mormont had been the head of her house. Brynden hadn't been tickled by the fact that she'd been an unmarried ruling lady because he himself was unmarried, and she'd been a warrior just like him.

Lady Mormont had perished at the Red Wedding, but she had mothered four? Five? Many daughters. Brynden expected them to be as fierce as her, and as loyal to House Stark.

Lady Stark was gone as well, and since Edmure couldn't be trusted whilst he remained a Lannister puppet the duty to escort little Cat's surviving child back to her home fell on Brynden. He was glad that Sansa had reached out to him with the foresight of sending a messenger rather than sending a raven. It would’ve been shot down by Lannister archers.

When the group of disguised Rivermen crossed a small bridge over the Tumbletone, Brynden vainly tried to detect a boat. Lady Brienne might still be rowing, but there was no sure way of finding her now. She was headed the same way as Brynden, thus he had no doubt that they would see each other again. He must send a raven to Castle Black without delay.

He wasn’t too sure about that Jon Snow, the stain in little Cat’s otherwise happy marriage. Where had the bastard boy been during his brother’s war, huh? Robb had been king, he could’ve pardoned his desertion of the Night’s Watch. Plenty of war prisoners could’ve been sent to the Wall in exchange!

Cat’s boy had been overwhelmed by his burdens as a war leader and a king, Brynden had seen it. And he’d seen that Cat couldn’t get through her son most times. Brynden hadn’t even tried, he was a terrible conversationalist. The Young Wolf had needed someone who would understand his anger, his fears and frustrations. A brother would’ve been the perfect companion. Brynden knew that all too well.

"It worked!" Hos proclaimed, needlessly before he and his men laughed into the night.

"Well done, my lord!" One soldier praised.

"Jaime Lannister isn’t worth a copper coin, let alone gold!" Another declared.

"And the men under his command? Worthless, the lots of them!" Yet another clamored.

"Come on now," the one closest to Brynden chided his companions. "We all know that they stood no chance against Lord Hoster Blackwood the Bright!"

The group laughed again, and this time Brynden wholeheartedly laughed along.

He would never admit it, but he’d waited for Hos to disappoint him simply because he was not the great soldier that his elder brother Lucas had been.

It was Lucas Blackwood’s bravery and strength which had allowed Brynden and a dozen other loyal Rivermen to escape the Twins during the Red Wedding. After fighting their way out of Old Walder’s territory, they had retreated to Raventree Hall.

When Brynden had confirmed the news of the Freys treason to Lord Blackwood as well as informed him of his second son's honorable death, he'd expected the Lord of Raventree Hall to look as devastated as he himself had felt. 

Instead, Lord Blackwood had calmly summoned his third son and had tasked him to assist the Blackfish in defending the lands from the turncoats.

At first Brynden had believed Old Tytos as senile and mutinous as Walder, for all knew that Hoster ‘Hos’ Blackwood was a disappointing namesake to the late Lord Hoster Tully. He was a bookish sort of man, a gangly and blabbering fool with scholastic aspirations. Scholars belonged in the Citadel, not on the battlefield!

And yet for the second time in less than two moon turns, the lad had proved that he had what it took to survive the world which Brynden had been ready to leave with a bold last stand just an hour ago.

Not yet. Hoster and Cat would have to wait. If he survived the battle for Winterfell, maybe...maybe he could rescue Edmure too. The Lannisters wouldn't stay forever, they would leave Riverrun to the Freys. Brynden had retaken his home from the turncoats once, he could do it twice. It had been ridiculously easy the first time around.

After the Red Wedding, two of Old Walter's sons had seized Riverrun and proclaimed their house the new rulers of the Riverlands. The uneducated fools had believed the drawbridge the only way into the fortress. Brynden had rowed into the castle via the Water Gate with Hos and half a hundred men from Raventree Hall.

  
He had been reluctant to turn his home into a chaotic slaughterhouse, for he’d known that many of his own house’s men would be forced to obey the Freys outnumbering his group of fifty-two. That’s when Hos had boldly vowed to hand him back his home without spilling the blood of one loyal Riverman. He’d claim that all Brynden had to do was tell him exactly where he needed everyone to be to make a favorable stand against the usurpers.

Unimpressed by the boy’s nonsense, Brynden had humored him and declared that it would be ideal if the Freys left their post to venture out to that stupid mill a few leagues away, just like Edmure had done years ago when Robb had firmly instructed him to hold the castle.

Of course Brynden had known that the scenario was impossible to recreate: the group couldn't be split into two in order to both draw the Freys to the mill and retake the castle from remaining guards.

And yet Hos had taken Brynden's instruction seriously, asking him for details about the battle at the mill. Then he’d told told the group to remain hidden in the Wheel Tower, and himself had passed for a cup bearer. They’d remained their for a sennight.

When Hos hadn't been sneaking them food and water, he'd babbled rumors about the resistance to the Freys, mentioning the importance of the mill to the people loyal to House Tully. He'd cautiously warned "their lordships" that not only could the mill feed a fair number of soldiers, but it was at that same mill that Lord Edmure Tully had distinguished himself as a warrior, fighting bravely and defeating Lannister forces led by none other than the Mountain. If the resistance appropriated the mill as a stronghold, other groups would be inspired to rebel.

Once the Freys had ascertained that the events at the mill had truly occurred, one of them had left the castle with the bulk of their army to claim the mill ahead of the resistance. That had been Brynden's signal to make his presence known to the occupants of the castle.

Outnumbered by loyal servants of House Tully and the Blackwood soldiers, the other Frey and his men had been cordial enough not to overstay their welcome. They were true Rivermen deep inside, for they’d had no problem jumping into the water from the battlements in order to join their brethren at the mill.  
  


"We can't chase the Lannisters out of Riverrun with less than a thousand and five hundred soldiers," Hos’ words brought the Blackfish’s mind back to the present. The dark present.

Night had fully set. They needed to find shelter. Pennytree had two inns, either one of them would do. 

"Not with Lord Edmure in it," Hos kept talking, or rather thinking out loud. "Those we left behind are under his command now. Should we take the Twins instead? Since most of Old Walder's army is in Riverrun. The Kingslayer is sure to send a raven to the old fool at first light. If we shoot that raven down and then pass for messengers..."

"Enough with your tricks, boy," Brynden objected as he slowed down his horse. "Don't get me wrong, I am grateful that you spared me the embarrassment of dying by the hands of the Kingslayer's men. But we Rivermen will not fight other Rivermen unless strictly necessary! Whether I like it or not, Tully and Frey are kin now, by marriage. I will not be called a kinslayer, however much Old Walter deserves a slow and painful death. Why do you think that he spared my nephew at the Red Wedding? Edmure's son will be his grandson!"

"Lord Tully wanted to have you handed to the Freys, my lord," one soldier spoke up as all horses were halted. "I was there when he gave the order, and we had no choice but to obey. Had Lord Hoster not intercepted me, I would’ve been the one shackling you to a wall, in the dungeons of your own home! Lord Tully betrayed his own blood to the turncoats! How can we restore justice and honor to the Riverlands without getting our hands dirty with Frey blood in the process? They started it by violating guest rights!"

Words of agreement circulated around the group.

"Aye, Lord Tully is my own blood," Brynden agreed. "My family. I will not fight against him. I’d rather fight for my other family instead."

"My lord?" Several men reacted in confusion.

"Cat, Lady Catelyn, was always my favorite," the older man reminisced out loud with bitterwseet nostalgia. "I couldn't protect her or her son at the Red Wedding, but may the Warrior give me the strength to protect her daughter. Sansa is King Robb's last surviving sibling. She’s of rightful royal blood, and one of the few who can rid us of the Lannisters."

"Isn't she a Lannister herself, Blackfish?" Hos questioned.

"No longer," Brynden corrected him. "It seems that she’s currently married to Roose Bolton’s heir, whom she aims to depose."

He let the boys exclaim their outrage and dismay for a few heartbeats before demanding silence by clearing his throat.

"It is not our place to question her political standing in the North," Brynden declared. "King Robb freed Riverrun, Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge from the usurping Lannisters. It is time we returned the favor by freeing House Stark's ancestral home—"

"Stone Hedge, my lord?" Hos echoed, and a few soldiers mumbled angry words about their rivals.

"I don't plan on making Houses Blackwood and Bracken travel side by side, lad," he reassured the boy, quieting a long sigh of frustration. "The North is vast, and I don't want the Boltons to hear about our arrival. Whereas the smaller Bracken party will keep east of the Kingsroad until it reaches the Neck, you, me and your father’s army shall march to Seagard where we will enlist volunteers to fight a simpler war. My niece was loved by all. I know that many loyal vassals of House Tully will want to fight for her only surviving child. Will you?"

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Brynden was irritated that he couldn’t see anyone’s expression.

"Lady, I mean Princess Sansa will be unmarried by the end of the war," Hos reflected out loud. 

That...was not an argument Brynden had expected to hear. Of course Sansa would have better marriage prospects than Hoster Blackwood, but indeed earning the favor of a princess was incentive enough for any man to march into battle.

"Prince Hoster the Bright," one of the soldier enunciated cautiously before laughing. "It sounds right!"

"You missed your vocation as a bard!" One of his comrades teased him, then youngsters threw friendly insults at each other.  
  


"Enough banter my friends," Hos commanded, and his men went quiet. "Blackfish, your great-niece has our swords. What will be next after Seagard?"

"We’ll sail North to...Deepwood Motte," the older Riverman decided. "The seat of House Glover, yes. We don’t look Ironborn, but let’s gather as many Stark banners as we can find in Raventree Hall."

"We were freed from the Lannisters by Greatjon Umber," someone rushed to say, "and he had a poor opinion of House Glover."

When had Greatjon Umber found the time to share his opinion about anything with anyone during the war!? Northmen and their big mouths!

"Greatjon Umber also liberated Stone Hedge," he informed the group, unable to mask his exasperation. "Does that change your opinion of him, soldier?"

A brief silence, then someone else mumbled:

"We shall not speak ill of the dead."

Brynden sent a wordless prayer to the Father, asking for patience with those foolish vassals. There was no doubt that his brother would’ve lived another decade without the heavy burden of leading those idiots.

"Deepwood Motte is the only viable destination in the North without going too far away from Winterfell," Brynden reasoned after remembering his geography. "Right now it is cold enough past in the Neck for us Southern Rivermen, so if you don’t mind? I plan on enjoying a comfortable and warm bed tonight. As the Starks say, winter is coming. I can feel it in my old bones."

He resumed his ride northward, and the group of younger men followed.

Brynden had no hope of dying in his bed like his brother, but he prayed to the Warrior that at least one of these lads would die of old age after the realm had recovered from the wars.

A foolish dream, but what did a soldier have if not dreams of peace?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last prologue, so everything coming up next will be focused on Jonsa.
> 
> Next POV Sansa Stark: 6x09 "Battle of the Bastards"


	4. No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Sansa Stark: 6x09 "Battle of the Bastards" Part 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this chapter on Sunday but I got too excited by the 100 kudos. Thank you all! 
> 
> Hope that you'll like this first rewrite.

"No one can protect me,” she declared a truth she should've realized a long time ago.

The Hound had told her, hadn't he? That they lived in a world of killers. She wasn't a killer, so of course she was going to be killed. Even a great fighter like Jon had been killed by his own men. 

Just like Robb.

“No one can protect anyone,” she added, then stepped outside before she could break in front of another brother who didn’t care about her.

The cold air helped her keep herself together, so she decided to walk around the camp and think of all the mistakes she’d made lately.

She’d been an idiot to think that Jon would be different from Robb. They’d been thick as thieves as children, so it made sense that they would treat her the same way as warriors.

For two years in King’s Landing, Sansa had believed that Robb would save her from Joffrey after their father’s death. She’d prayed and prayed and prayed for him to win all his battles, for him to keep going south until he made it to the capital. 

But he hadn’t even tried to rescue her. In fact, he’d forbidden their mother to make an exchange between her and Ser Jaime. Sansa wasn’t worth a skilled fighter like Jaime Lannister, but she was a woman with a powerful name. She had been a princess through Robb. She had been worth an alliance with a powerful army! Even if Robb had thought her stupid, couldn't he have used her to secure alliances at least?

It was too late for what ifs. The truth was that Robb hadn’t tried to save her. He himself had married a foreigner with nothing to her name so clearly he hadn’t cared for alliances. Sansa had held no value to him.

And if Robb hadn’t found her worth fighting for, why had she expected Jon to think differently?

At least Sansa's relationship with Robb had been great...from her perspective, which had probably been delusional. In her head it had made sense that Robb would fight for her since their father had been dead, Bran and Rickon had been reported dead too, and Arya had been missing. Starks took care of each other, she'd had good reasons to hope for her trueborn brother's help. But Jon? 

Jon hated her still. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t forgiven her for being a terrible sister, because it wasn’t the honorable thing to do. Because their father’s ghost would murder him if he didn't at least pretend to be nice.

Sansa had hoped that they could become a real family this time. She'd learned to see past stupid prejudices. So what if Jon was a bastard? He was raised by their father to be a good man. 

She'd learned not to judge people for who they were but by what they did. Lord Tyrion, who was a Lannister and a dwarf, had been the kindest person to Sansa since she'd left Winterfell. Him being a dwarf truly didn't mean anything, but he was a Lannister. Lannisters couldn't be trusted and deep down Sansa felt justified for not trusting Lord Tyrion after all...for he'd murdered his own father. 

But he wouldn't have hurt a child, she knew that. Not even Joffrey. He hadn't touched Sansa because she'd been too young to be his wife, unlike Littlefinger who'd kept touching her and kissing her. 

Lord Tyrion had waited. He'd let Sansa be a child for a little longer and she knew now that she would have liked him eventually. He'd gifted her books about history, about times so long past that sitting alone in her marital bed, she'd been able to escape her reality for a few hours at a time. He would've given her that, an escape, every day until he decided that she was old enough.

He would've been more gentle than Ramsay. Anyone would've been better than Ramsay.

Sansa should've stayed in King's Landing and died by Cersei's hands. What had been the point of escaping? Was it better to die in the North? Maybe.

Rickon and her were going to die on their family's lands because Jon didn't care about her.

He only cared about Rickon, yet he would never reach Rickon in time to save him. Sansa was sure that Ramsay would use Rickon to force Jon to make mistakes. The odds of Jon's army winning were already terrible, but Ramsay was clever and cruel. He would crush Jon, physically and mentally. That's what he did.

Jon had to know it deep down. Maybe he wanted to lose and be done with it. He'd already died, hadn't he? And he was done fighting, he'd told Sansa and she had insisted. He should've specified that he didn't want to fight for her in particular, that would've spared her the heartbreak after she'd had her hopes up. 

But hadn't she known that he hated her still, deep down? She had. Now she could be honest with herself, now she could see the signs for what they truly were.

Jon never sat or stood next to her. She was always the one initiating physical contact, and except for their embrace when she’d arrived at Castle Black, he always wanted to recoil from her touch. Maybe he hadn’t even wanted to put his arms around her the first time around. She’d been the one throwing herself at him like an idiot. 

She’d felt so warm and safe for the first time in so many years, but it had been an illusion. She was still a stupid girl with stupid dreams. She hadn’t learned anything.

No one would fight for her because no one cared for her. Only Lady Brienne wanted to help Sansa but it was out of loyalty for her mother. Sansa's mother had been the only one in the world to love her, like Cersei had been the only one to love Joffrey. Like Aunt Lysa had been the only one to love Robin. 

Mothers always loved their children. Sansa had been alone in the world from the moment her mother had been killed.

She was glad that at least Lady Brienne and Podrick wouldn’t die for her out of duty. She knew that Lady Brienne didn’t like her because she was a liar.

She’d lied to Jon, the way she'd lied to Lord Royce, Lord Corbray and Lady Waynwood. She’d lied to spare Littlefinger a trial that would end with his head cut off. That was all he deserved, but Sansa couldn’t let him die.

If Petyr Baelish died, then Robin would be all alone in the world. He'd already lost his mother, like Sansa, but he still had Littlefinger. 

As Alayne Stone, Sansa had paid attention to the people's opinions of their lord paramount. She'd sadly learned that, from Gulltown to the Eyrie, no one loved Lady Arryn’s "cruel boy," nor Lady Arryn herself for that matter. And all the people in the castle thought Robin weak and unfit to rule. They thought that he wouldn’t even survive to adulthood!

Sansa knew that Baelish only wanted Robin for his name and his army, but to have those he needed to protect Robin. He needed to care for him so he could manipulate him. He spent a lot of time watching over Robin to make sure that nothing bad happened to him. He was giving Robin lessons in military training, horse riding, falconry…he was grooming him to be a strong ally.

That's what Littlefinger needed, strong allies, because he himself couldn't fight. Or rather, because he couldn't let his enemies suspect that he had any army to fight for him.

As angry as she was that a man as despicable as Littlefinger would always escape justice, Sansa was relieved to know that at least her younger cousin would be safe. Robin was her family and she would always protect her family, to the best of her ability.

If only she could save Rickon…

Wait.

Could she not? 

If she could protect her younger cousin through a terrible man like Littlefinger…

But...Ramsay was a monster.

But so was Baelish? He'd killed his own wife to have Robin's guardianship, to become the acting lord of the Eyrie. Ramsay had killed his own father to become the acting lord of Winterfell. Sansa didn't believe for a second that Roose Bolton had been poisoned by his enemies.

Rickon was a trueborn Stark. Ramsay wanted to kill him so his title as Warden of the North wouldn't be contested, but...what if protecting Rickon was a better prospect for his rule?

After all, now that he was the Lord of Winterfell, Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell! Cersei had to be furious about that, right? 

The Lannisters had given power to the Boltons in exchange for killing off the Starks, but then the Boltons had tried to use Sansa to keep the North complacent by having a Stark in Winterfell. That...that was a rebellion wasn't it? That's what Littlefinger had wanted, to pitch House Stark's enemies against one another.

Maybe Sansa was going to die anyway. Maybe Ramsay wouldn't forgive her for running away and for openly rebelling against him. But he wouldn't kill her on sight if she returned to Winterfell. He would take his time to make her suffer. He would keep raping her until she gave him an heir.

But she would never give him one. Thanks to Shae, she would never give an heir to her enemies.

Shae couldn't have protected her from Joffrey the way she'd promised to protect her from Littlefinger, but she's taught Sansa how to get rid of babies in the womb. 

Many foods stopped pregnancies early on, and men didn't know anything about it. Wolkan knew because he was a maester and he'd taken care of Lady Bolton. The first time he had confronted Sansa about the food she made scullery maids bring her, she'd feared that he would tell Roose Bolton. 

Instead, he'd told her which foods would help her recover from hurting her womb, so she could still have children if she changed her mind.

Without an heir with Stark blood, Ramsay's rule would always be contested. He could kill Rickon and Sansa, but Arya was still alive, and Sansa was convinced that so was Bran.

Their children would threaten the Bolton's rule, and those children's children after them. The Starks had ruled the North for thousands of years. The North remembered.

Sansa could save Rickon by making Ramsay see him as his only chance to have a united North under his rule...and under his command. After all, the White Walkers were coming for all of them. If he was the one saving the North from them, the people would like him. He needed to change his image, fear was a terrible way to keep people in line. Sansa could help him have a better reputation. She could be a dutiful wife.

Yes, yes! She could do it. Jon couldn't save Rickon but she could. 

  
  


This was her war, and she shouldn't have let Jon push her to the side to be a fretting bystander.

_Stop being a bystander, do you hear me? Stop running._

She was no warrior, but she was a woman. Even married women had weapons. 

_Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between her legs. Learn how to use it._

Ramsay wasn't Stannis Baratheon, Sansa could please him. Shae had taught her how to please herself, she could pretend to enjoy bedding her husband. She knew what he liked because he'd made her watch him and Miranda many times...usually after killing people…

Before her disgust and fear could make her lose her determination to save her brother and the North, Sansa entered her cold tent, found a candle stub and used her focus to light it up to forget her nerves.

Then she wrote a note to Jon to explain her plan, which helped her visualize it better. If the first part of it worked but Ramsay killed her and Rickon anyway, she would at least manage to even the odds for Jon.

She felt so bold that she even left Jon a hidden message. He couldn't read it, no one alive in the North could. Only the Royces still learned the runes of the Old Tongue. Sansa had learned it from one of the books that Lord Tyrion had gifted her, requested all the way from the Citadel. After she'd revealed her identity, she'd impressed Lord Royce by reading the message of his house's sigil. He himself had taught her father. 

Why had her father not taught her and her siblings? Because they were half-Tully? They still were direct descendants of the First Men! 

It was too late for what ifs, but the past was important. If she survived Ramsay, Sansa would always look into the past to make sure that her future was safe. She wasn't smart like Margaery, Shae, or Littlefinger. She could only learn from mistakes. Not just her own but from her father's and from Robb's too, and from the history of all the Starks who'd come before them.

At least there was no Baratheon left for the next Lord Stark to marry his daughter to. Starks should stay in the North.

Sansa would always love her mother, she wouldn't be alive without her, but she couldn't count on her Tully heritage. Her great uncle had refused to help, and Sansa understood that to him she looked like a deranged woman rebelling against her lawful husband. He couldn't leave his home for someone like that, it made no sense.

It was alright. Starks must stay in the North, away from the danger of the Iron Throne. It was a good thing that Sansa had refused Littlefinger's help, though Robin might be upset that she was rejecting him in the process.

She would've been safer with him in the Eyrie, but of course Littlefinger had other plans for her. She'd been a pawn on his game board and he'd needed her to move her where he needed her to win the game of thrones.

Sansa was his pawn no longer. She would play the game herself. And if she lost, so be it. At least she would make her own mistakes this time, not his. Not Robb's, not her father's, not Jon's who had no chance to save Rickon. She did. Even if she failed, Rickon would hear about her coming for him. He would know that her older sister had tried.

After carefully writing the last rune, she sealed the scroll with the candle wax. It was white, so the direwolf stamp looked like Ghost…

...who almost made her scream when she exited her tent and found him sitting right in front of it. 

He was so big, she couldn't get used to it! He and the Giant made her feel like she'd stepped into a different world, into the stories about the Dawn Age which she'd read in the books Lord Tyrion had gifted her.

Since Ghost had been the runt of his litter, did that mean that Lady would've been bigger? But Lady had been female. She-wolves were smaller than wolves, weren't they?

Still, Sansa missed her faithful companion. Robb's direwolf Grey Wind had fought with him in battle just like Ghost had fought with Jon; Nymeria had bitten Joffrey to defend Arya; Rickon's direwolf Shaggydog must have tried to protect him when Smalljon Umber had betrayed him.

Lady had been killed before she, Sansa or even Sansa's father had understood that they were all in danger. 

Sansa briefly removed her gloves to rub Ghost under the chin. As usual he kept quiet, but he closed his eyes and wagged his tail in appreciation for the petting. 

He followed her around the camp for a few minutes but thankfully disappeared when she approached the horses. They were naturally scared of him.

The Hornwood soldiers guarding them didn't hide their relief when Sansa lied that she'd changed her mind and had decided to join Lady Mormont at the crofter's village half an hour away to wait out the war. One of them offered to escort her, which she'd expected.

What she hadn't expected was for Ghost to reappear out of nowhere mere minutes after they'd set off. He scared the soldier's horse at the very moment that Sansa had been about to turn her horse around and make a run towards Winterfell.

"Are you hurt?" She asked the soldier, who was an excellent rider for he'd managed to slide off the horse before it had fully reared up, even keeping a hold on the torch he'd been carrying. 

The horse galloped away in the direction of the camp. Clever animal.

"Yes m'lady," the man answered as he looked around for Ghost, who also trotted away...but towards Winterfell.

No way. Did he know? Was he...was he offering to guide Sansa? She knew the general direction of Winterfell, but she might get lost for it was dark. The sky was clear and the moon shining bright, but it was still too dark for an inexperienced rider like her, and it was cold.

She needed that torch.

"Is the direwolf hungry?" The soldier asked as he watched Ghost go away. 

He tried to pull on the reigns of Sansa's horse, and blinked when she drew them out of reach.

"You should ride with me," she told him as innocently as possible. "If you walk we'll freeze before reaching the village."

"We're still close to the camp m'lady," he politely argued, "so we can go back to the camp and take another horse. It's no bother m'lady."

"We'll be warmer if we share body heat," she blurted out impatiently, only realizing how that sounded when his eyes went wide.

Oh no. What must he think of her? 

Hmm. What must a soldier think of a beautiful woman who'd long lost her virtue, on the eve of a battle?

"My brother doesn't have to know," she said quietly, secretively, before extending her hand towards the torch. "Come. We can't waste time since you must return to camp before dawn."

"D-dawn, m-m'lady?" He stuttered, and Sansa forced her surprise down but let her amusement show.

Men were so simple, weren't they? The ones who weren't stupidly honorable, evidently.

Jon would never let Sansa seduce him even though she knew he found her beau—

She almost dropped the torch when she realized what she was thinking.

Jon? Jon was her brother! What was wrong with her?!

Had Ramsay broken her mind after all? Was it Cersei's influence?

No, no, it was simply because Sansa found Jon handsome too. She'd never thought of him as her family, so meeting him after all these years...she was just confused.

It didn't help that Jon didn't look like their father anymore, not even like Robb. Jon had the Stark coloring, but at most he looked like Arya...and that was such a silly observation. Arya looked like a Stark because of their father, just like Jon!

Managing not to roll her eyes at herself, Sansa changed her grip on the torch and rode away before Ghost would leave her stupid self behind. 

"M'lady?" The soldier called after her. "Lady Sansa!"

Yes, she was Lady Sansa, the lady of Winterfell. She was the Wardeness of the North. 

She was a Stark, a she-wolf, and it was time she had her first kill. If she didn't kill in this world of killers, then she would never survive. 

She couldn't kill Ramsay, but he wasn't her family's only enemy, was he? 

He wasn't the one who'd betrayed Rickon.


	5. No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Jon Snow: 6x09 "Battle of the Bastards" Part 2/3

"No one can protect me," Sansa declared so calmly that Jon's mind didn't catch her meaning before she added "no one can protect anyone."

He froze, unable to counter her bleak statement with a Stark saying: that Starks always protected each other, looked after one another. That as long as they were together they could weather anything, not just winter but any hardship and obstacle.

But Jon wasn't a Stark.

He would teach Rickon, and maybe teach Rickon's children one day. Jon himself had learned a lot from his uncle Benjen. He'd absorbed as much as he could have from his visits, and many times his words echoed those which Lord Stark spoke to Robb.

Jon wasn't a Stark, but he was a direwolf. He was back in the North where he belonged, and after gauging his enemy he just knew that he would win. He'd visualized it even before he'd met Ramsay.

He'd lost confidence that he could do better than Stannis because he couldn't gather more men than him. 

However, after Sansa's comment on listening to Davos, the advisor of a dead Stannis, Jon had started to think for himself. She'd made a good point.

As great as a war strategist as he'd been, Stannis had been a Southerner unfamiliar with the northern terrain. As a Northerner himself, Jon shouldn't think like him. 

So he'd moved the camp closer to Winterfell, at one edge of the Wolfswood, not far from the crofter's village he'd guessed would be abandoned. Only a few hundreds could take refuge there if a snow storm hit, but Tormund had looked at the clouds again and assured Jon that only flurries would come down this time. Even if a storm did hit them, the Free Folk would just retreat in the woods. They, the "true Northerners," were used to being out in storms. They would find a thick canopy of the Wolfswood to shield them from the elements. 

It felt good for Jon to be back here, to breathe in scents of his childhood. They seemed sharper somehow, and he'd been fighting a strong urge to explore the woods all day...the way his two trump cards against Ramsay's army had been doing to their heart's content.

And that's what Jon also wanted to tell Sansa: that Ramsay didn't truly know what their army was made of. Except for a few men Jon hadn't told anyone about his surprises either, just the Hornwood, simply because he didn't want them to rely on the two special warriors. Jon himself didn't know that they would carry out his orders to the letter.

Ghost and Wun Wun couldn't talk back in a language he understood, could they?

Jon needed to get a report from the Hornwood men. He'd tasked them to make a shield, a bow and arrows for the Giant. That was another reason why they'd needed to come to the woods: arrows. He wanted to avoid direct confrontation between his army and Ramsay's for as long as possible. A fair amount of the Hornwood soldiers and all the Mazin foot soldiers were archers...and possibly had kin and friends amongst the enemy.

That had to be the reason why the Northern houses hadn't answered Jon's call: most refused to fight against other houses with whom they shared kinship. 

That, or Sansa was completely wrong about vassals' loyalty being stronger in the North than in the South. Maybe she wanted to believe that because she'd been surrounded by traitors in the South and in Winterfell already. The idea of having more enemies must terrify her.

Her panic minutes ago was normal, truly. This would be the first battle she would see with her own eyes. Jon had wanted her to stay with Lady Lyanna at the village nearby, but of course she'd refused. 

The young Lady Mormont herself had been coerced into remaining at a safe distance from the battle by her cousin...twice removed, the knight leading the 62 soldiers. Ser...what was his name? Jon simply called him Ser since it was a title that Davos rarely answered to.

The Northern knight had convinced his lady to be prudent by bringing up the names of her elder sisters. Jon remembered Lord Commander Jeor Mormont mentioning several nieces. What had happened to the others? He might ask when everything settled down after the battle. For now he had more pressing matters to tackle.

He almost hit foot against a brazier and disturbed the pieces on the war map when he braced against the table. Then he remembered that he hadn't lit the brazier in Sansa's tent tonight.

Ah.

But he'd taught her how to light a fire. She should manage, and anyway she probably didn't want to see him right now.

But what if...what if she did? If she truly was scared and truly believed that this was the last night either of them would be alive...wouldn't she want to spend the night with him now?

He wouldn't.

Fuck. He was the worst brother. 

Part of him wanted to be ashamed of his mistrust of Sansa because she didn't deserve it. As he himself had told her, she'd been a child when she'd looked at him with contempt and disgust the few times she'd acknowledged his existence at all. He couldn't hold her responsible for what she'd done as a little girl. She'd had simply emulated her mother!

She was a woman grown now, and she hadn't once disrespected him or ignored him. She seemed to truly care about him and his safety.

But what about Rickon? How could she count him as good as dead before they could even try helping him? Hadn't she asked Jon to fight for their home and brother? Rickon was her trueborn brother, the rightful lord of Winterfell! She'd said so herself!

Was it because she planned on only sharing her home with her bastard half-brother, who couldn't claim power over the North like a trueborn Stark could? He didn't have the Stark name, she did. She'd said that too, at Castle Black.

Of course Jon had no claim on Winterfell, and Sansa already was its lady...just like her mother had been before her.

Sansa used to take so much after Lady Stark that Jon had rarely felt guilty for not being able to build a good relationship with her. He was her older brother and should've tried to endear himself to her the way he'd succeeded with all his other half-siblings...

...but he'd believed that it wasn't worth suffering the condescending tone she'd used on all her siblings herself—except on Robb when she'd needed a favor. Ultimately, Jon had neglected Sansa because he'd believed that she would get married off in the South anyway, far from the North which she'd seemed to hate without having been outside of Winterfell except for festivals in Wintertown.

Now that she'd seen parts of the North, Jon wondered if she kept asking to visit more castles because she loved what she was seeing. She only complained about the cold when no one else but Jon could hear, but other than that...he could tell that she was pleasantly surprised by the lands. 

When no one else was around she also fussed about him. A lot.

She corrected his grammar with a disapproving frown and taught him the names of the current lords and ladies of the North. The fact that she remembered all her childhood lessons after everything that she'd been through was impressive. 

After offering him a cloak, she'd mended one of his two shirts, the one he was wearing underneath his armor. She'd transformed the other into a much finer garment by stitching white and red motifs at the upper back and down the seams of the sleeves. She'd also started sewing a jerkin, made of bleached leather she'd exchanged for white hare fur on Bear Island. She regularly made Jon try it on to make sure it fit, and he could tell that it was too fancy to wear any time but at formal events. 

Maybe at Sansa's coronation? Jon had thought that Arya should be queen, but...that was because he'd dismissed Sansa as lost forever, hadn't he?

He was such a hypocrite.

The news of Joffrey's death that he'd heard from Sam had been accompanied with the announcement that the Iron Throne had put a bounty on "the kingslayer and kinslayer Tyrion Lannister or his co-conspirator wife Sansa Lannister."

Jon had ignored Sam's point that the announcement meant that the queen wanted his sister alive. A dwarf and a pretty girl on the run, both used to luxury? To Jon they'd had no chance of surviving before Cersei could get her hands on them.

Yet there Sansa was, sound of mind and as safe as Jon could make her feel. So how could she dismiss Rickon's chances to survive Ramsay the way she herself had?

Or rather, how could Jon assume that she was being pessimistic because she was a terrible sister, rather than because she dreaded losing another brother to the Boltons? Why was Jon looking for such serious flaws in his own sister?

He wouldn't do the same about Arya.

When Jon hadn't been sure how to greet Sansa at Castle Black, he'd been relieved that she'd thrown herself in his arms the way their little sister would have. Then, Jon had believed that he could just treat his proper lady sister the way he'd always treated his fierce and unladylike sister. 

But he'd quickly found the idea silly because Sansa wasn't Arya. Sansa was a lady, but she wasn't Lady Catelyn either. She didn't even look like her, not so much. Jon had only seen Lord Edmure Tully twice as a boy, but he was certain that Sansa's nose and smile looked just like her maternal uncle's, and the rest of her features came from Lord Stark. She did have her mother coloring.

Most importantly, she didn't treat Jon like Lady Catelyn had, far from it. And that was part of the problem.

Lady Stark wouldn't have sewn him clothes befitting a trueborn Stark, nor would she have grabbed his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world, nor would she have said his name in frustration when he didn't seem to listen to pay her enough attention.

The problem was that Jon did pay close attention to Sansa's gestures, the way he'd paid attention to Lady Stark in order to avoid her as much as possible when he'd accepted that she would never like him even a little.

Not even because he could watch over her youngest children the way Lord Stark and Robb couldn't because they were busy ruling and learning to rule.

The way Sansa seemed to want Jon to rule now. It didn't look like she wanted to be queen at all. But if Jon admitted that, then…

Then he also had to acknowledge the way Sansa made him feel: respected, for she left him the final decision for everything and only argued to the point of raising her voice because she was a true Northerner now, outspoken and loudly so. And she only yelled when others weren't paying attention. Because a lady didn't raise her voice at her elder half-brother? 

But Arya and Sansa had raised their voices on Robb and Bran. Lady Mormont had raised her voice on members of her liege house. Northerners just talked over each other, it was normal.

Lady Catelyn had never raised her voice at Lord Stark in public because she was born and raised a Southerner. Jon had only ever heard her yell at her husband in his solar, usually about Jon himself. 

Did Sansa realize that she was treating her half-brother the exact same way which her mother had treated her father?

Was she doing it because it was the only relationship between Stark adults that she'd witnessed? The yelling too? It must be. It had to be.

And of course Jon was the only person whom Sansa allowed in her tent after Lady Brienne's departure, because she didn't trust anyone else. And Sansa had wanted Jon to share her bedroll their first night away from Castle Black because she was cold all the time. It had been a pragmatic request, which he'd rejected.

Surely she treated Jon the way she would've treated Robb. She no longer cared that he was only her baseborn half-brother, there was no doubt about it.

No doubt at all. 

So why was Jon lingering here, taking his darn time replacing the war pieces on the map? Why couldn't he just go to her tent and offer to keep her company for this last night before the battle?

Why couldn't he tell her that he knew beyond doubt that he would win because he'd already seen his own fists pummel Ramsay's face?

He'd seen it in the flames of a brazier at Castle Black, or at least he'd thought he'd seen it from afar. When he'd stepped closer, Sansa had approached him both in person and in the flames. She had the same cloak in both case, and the same braiding style though her hair had looked slightly disheveled in the flames..and in the vision he couldn't see that underneath the cloak had been a—

_New dress?_

What an idiot. He might as well have told Melisandre that he hadn't seen anything after death because he hadn't truly died. His soul had remained amongst the living. 

"Fuck," he cursed when he absentmindedly knocked a war piece on the map yet again. 

What was he doing here? He needed to check on Wun Wun's weapons—

Coincidentally he'd knocked out a Hornwood piece, so he placed it on the location of the Hornwood castle.

"Huh," he breathed out as he looked down at the map carefully, tracing it with his finger as he reflected.

Castle Hornwood was located east of Winterfell, only a two-day ride from the Dreadfort. The Hornwoods were close enough to the Boltons' castle to fear reprisal for rebelling against them...and yet Lady Hornwood had risked sending her soldiers west to join Jon?

They could've been detected by Bolton men and killed on their way. They could've been skinned, like the cowardly Lord Glover had feared he would for even talking to Jon and Sansa. They'd visited House Mazin, which had replaced the tertiary branch of House Flint at Breakstone Hill. The castle had been on the way down from Castle Black, north of Stannis' camp. 

Lord Mazin had welcomed Jon and Sansa with open arms and unconcealed relief, a fact that Jon was only now realizing. At the time he'd been very uncomfortable with the older lord's comment that Jon and Sansa looked just like Lord and Lady Stark. Sansa had smiled widely at that! Lord Mazin had also said something about not trusting ravens, hadn't he? Just like Lord Glover.

Wait.

Didn't that mean that Sansa was right about visiting more castles? Lord Glover clearly held a grudge against Robb, but…

No, no. House Hornwood had answered the call without needing to see them in person...and how come?

Was it the only loyal house in the North? The late Lord Hornwood's natural son Larence was leading the two hundred soldiers, and Jon had wondered if Lady Hornwood simply hoped that her late husband’s bastard would die in battle. Her trueborn son had died fighting for Robb.

But Larence seemed eager to fight. He'd been eager to fight even before Jon had talked to him and a few men to make Wun Wun's weapons. He'd been eager to fight even before gaping at Wun Wun like allthe other Northmen.

Why?

Jon had to know. A leader should know his people's motivations. Their needs. Unlike Ser Davos, Jon was able to stop fights between Free Folks and Northerners because he understood both sides.

Hadn’t Sam said that the mutineers had rebelled against Lord Commander Jeor Mormont because they'd been cold and hungry and the Lord Commander hadn't pressured Craster to accommodate them?

Jon himself had been killed because…his men hated him? No, no, Thorne had only convinced a few to betray their Lord Commander. Jon still couldn't believe that Olly had been one of them. Olly had voted for him to lead!

Olly was dead, but Larence Snow wasn't, so Jon headed to his tent...guarded by a soldier? Why? They only needed to patrol the outskirts of the camp! Everyone needed to rest!

"Why aren't you…" Jon started asking when he heard a woman scream inside the tent.

The other kind of scream. Which was fine, Jon supposed. 

Wait. 

How? 

There were no camp whores, the only women around here were—Free Women.

The soldier keeping watch fidgeted as Jon stared at him in disbelief before announcing that he'd returned shortly.

He visited the red priestess and asked her not to bring him back this time if he died again. Once had been enough. His death should be final.

Melisandre refused to obey his command, and while he tried to stay engaged in their argument, he couldn't fully do that.

There was something in the flames of the brazier. Images of—

Trees, he was seeing trees. It looked like the Wolfswood surrounding them.

Amongst those trees, Jon saw...a heart tree? Yes, it had a face.

At its roots...direwolves. Three of them. They looked like...the black one reminded him of Shaggydog, but its muzzle was spotted with red. The other two didn't resemble the Starks' direwolves at all. In fact, one of them was completely red, or maybe light brown? The scene seemed illuminated by a torch.

Why was Jon seeing this? Why now? 

Was this new power truly acquired from Melisandre's god? He'd believed so because his burn wounds were gone. The other wounds and scars were still there, but the burns...he'd thought that he'd been affected by fire magic.

But he hadn't been brought back to life by Melisandre, who was claiming that she had no magic herself, only that granted by her god. Her god had brought his soul back to his body, but not from death.

Maybe he had simply brought it back from Ghost's body. That's what had happened, hadn't it? Jon’s mind had merged with his four legged friend's. He'd seen the world differently for a few hours and from a slightly lower vantage point. From Ghost’s eyes. He'd even made sure that he wasn't dreaming. He'd nosed his own dead body.

Jon still had trouble believing that he was a warg just like Orell...but why should he? He'd known from the start that direwolves were special to Starks. He'd felt strongly about keeping Ghost's litter alive so they could protect Lord Stark's children.

Other than his clothes and his sword, Ghost bad been the only present his father had ever given him. He'd never felt more like a Stark than when he'd realized that he would have a pup as well. Robb had known how much that meant to him.

And now there were three direwolves south of the Wall...this couldn't be a coincidence, nor could it be a message from the Lord of Light. 

The Free Folks didn't believe in Melisandre's god any more than Jon did. Most of them believed in the Old Gods of the Forest. 

But what about Jon seeing images in the flames? Davos had told him that Stannis had also seen things in the flames. 

But the Lord of Light had abandoned Stannis even after Stannis had converted to the foreign religion. The Lord of Light had let Lady Brienne execute Stannis for ordering the murder of his own brother. After Stannis had ordered Mance Rayder's death. All those sacrifices and the Lord of Light had forsaken Stannis when it truly counted. 

"What kind of God would do something like that?" Jon wondered out loud, part of him not so certain that he could win the battle anymore.

Had Stannis also seen images of his victory over Roose Bolton in the flames? If so Davos was right to say that Melisandre's god was cruel and deceitful.

"The one we've got," she answered, and just then the image of the weirwood tree and direwolves turned sharper.

The one she had, sure. But even she didn't sound so sure of his existence, not like before.

As he exited her tent, Jon wondered how he could find that heart tree. He didn't remember seeing weirwood trees with faces in this area back when he was a boy, but maybe people had carved the face after he'd last visited it?

He could explore the woods through Ghost, maybe? No, it was better to ask Ghost to find the other direwolves himself. Jon wasn't comfortable taking control of his companion's body. It wasn't right. He should only do it when absolutely necessary.

He returned to Larence's tent first. The woman whom the other Snow had bedded was indeed one of the warriors who would fight with Jon on the morrow. Lia? Ria? 

Jon watched her drag that Hornwood guard inside the tent not a minute after giving one last kiss to Larence, who was fully dressed now.

"To think that I've hated wildlings all my life," the Hornwood bastard commented with a chuckle. "The others will be jealous when we tell them of this camp after the war. Serves them right for doubting Lord Stark's son!"

Jon blinked at the friendly tap the other bastard gave him along with a mischievous grin. They walked away from the tent and from the giggles coming from it.

"I must admit that I myself was skeptical," Larence said with a quick shrug of his shoulders. "Lady Donella said that the gods sent you to help us, but it seemed to me that she was getting rid of me.”

“Right,” Jon acknowledged.

“I was fostered at Deepwood Motte,” Larence let him know. “I gladly fought for King Robb when he called upon us, and when the war was over I had to get my lord father and brother's remains to be buried home. Obviously I don’t care that you’re a bastard. So am I! But your actions worried me at first even though Lady Donella ordered me to always trust Stark blood. She's born a Manderly and reminded me that House Stark saved her ancestors after they fled the Reach. She will publicly berate her lord father for not answering your call, mark my words. I don't blame him. He's not a devout like her. Few are, truly." 

"My actions?" Jon dumbly repeated after he recovered from his shock.

"Allowing the wildlings south of the Wall," Larence specified. "I don't have to tell a former brother of the Night's Watch what we think of wildlings, aye?"

No way. Lord Glover had said...was everyone ignoring Jon's call because he let the Free Folks South of the Wall then? Of course, it made sense from their perspective, but no one had asked Jon for an explanation. Lord Glover wouldn't let him speak!

He should've sent messengers like he'd planned. All the ravens had been sent back to their respective castles and keeps in Westeros, and no one had sent any ravens to replace them.

Maester Aemon's advice to do as he pleased had only applied to the Night's Watch. He should've thought about that!

"Lady Hornwood is kin with the Karstarks," Larence informed him before wincing, then adding, "but she claims that it doesn't matter since the gods are categorically against Ramsay. She swears that he killed not just his father but his trueborn brother too. A newborn baby! She’d sent Lady Bolton all sorts of gifts for future mothers as a way to appease Roose Bolton for not visiting Winterfell in person. But no one has heard about the baby or the mother. On the day we left to join you, the baby had been due for a fortnight, but the birth still wasn't announced. Wouldn’t Ramsay be the acting lord of Winterfell rather than the lord of Winterfell if he had a trueborn sibling? Or is it a girl, so she’s inheriting the Dreadfort? As much as I don’t want to hear that another bastard is a degenerate, how could Ramsay not be? Why would Princess Sansa repudiate a marriage she'd entered voluntarily with the gods as her witnesses?"

Princess? Aye, if Robb had been king, then Sansa was a princess. Calling her “Lady” would imply that the bastard Lannister boy was the rightful king.

A matter for another time. Jon could hear Sansa’s confident claim that Ramsay had killed his own father as if she was saying it right now by his side. That's when she'd also believed that Ramsay held Rickon’s hostage.

If that ‘monster’ had killed a newborn baby, his own blood, then Rickon…

Gods, Rickon.

Sansa had been right all along. She’d been right about everything! And yet Jon didn't want to give up on Rickon. He couldn’t. There had to be a way to save him!

"When I saw your direwolf I knew that Lady Donella was right about the gods," Larence's declaration shocked Jon. "l wasn’t one bit surprised when I heard the rumors amongst the wildlings."

No way, him too?

"They think that you're a god. You were killed by traitors of the Night's Watch and you came back to life."

Jon closed his eyes in defeat and rubbed his forehead.

At least his men believed in him. That was better than half of his former brothers of the Night's Watch hating him.

"Never occurred to me that we and some of the wildlings worship the same gods," Larence's next words made him look at him more attentively. "I don't think that you're a god, Commander. No offense.”

“Thank the gods,” Jon replied, and both chuckled.

“But I do believe that the gods are working through you to restore order to the lands,” Larence specified. “And you’re a warg, aren’t you? You came back to life because those miscreants at the Wall forgot to kill your direwolf too. Everything is just like in the stories I was told as a child."

Right, Old Nan had spoken of Starks who switched forms between direwolves and men. Of course there was truth in all of her stories. Maybe that was why Lady Mormont had believed Davos: she was still young enough to seriously believe those stories.

“The turncoats made sure to kill King Robb’s wolf Greywind," Larence spoke with anger after Jon nodded in confirmation, “and now Prince Rickon's direwolf. That's bad, but as long as he himself doesn't die at all it should be alright. 'Tis not for me to decide which one of you two should be king after we win the war, but I’d say it should count for something."

King?! Jon didn't want to be king! Forget what he wanted, he had no rights to claim any crown. He was a bastard! 

He didn't care about any of that. He needed to find the direwolves. Rickon might have a new protector!

Was Jon's urge to visit the woods even his, then? Maybe he was feeling Ghost's excitement, and Ghost was excited because he'd sensed those other direwolves, hadn't he? He had to. 

But then if there were only three direwolves...did that mean that only Arya or Bran was alive, not both? Lady Brienne hadn't seen a direwolf following Arya so Nymeria must have been killed too. But Summer could still be alive. Did Rickon know where Bran was?

Did Sansa? She had seemed very confident that all their younger siblings had been alive. Knowing so much wasn’t normal. She was gifted too, wasn't she? 

Jon suspected that she'd lied about how she'd learned about the Blackfish. She'd paused and had only looked at him as if in an afterthought.

Why hadn't she told him? Did she not trust him?

What a hypocrite.

Why would she trust him with her secrets when he didn’t trust her with his? They were family!

Gods, they needed to talk. Now.

“Are the giant's weapons ready?" He remembered to ask Larence, who nodded enthusiastically.

"We'll crush those turncoats, Commander," Larence promised. "Then head to the Wall after the coronation, aye? I always wanted to see it. Dreamed of serving in the Night's Watch as a boy, but my lord father said that it wasn't the glorious order it used to be. All full of criminals and unwanted sons...forgive me!" He apologized with wide eyes.

Aye, unwanted sons. Jon had pieced things together the moment he'd stepped foot at Castle Black. 

Lord Stark had raised him like his own simply because he was an honorable man...and likely because Jon's mother had died on her birthing bed. Bed roll? She'd been a camp whore most likely.

It didn't matter anymore. Lord Stark was dead, so Jon would never know about his mother. At least his father hadn't hated him like Sam's.

“No, thank you for your honesty, Larence,” Jon replied, clasping the man's forearm and nodding solemnly. “Now get some sleep."

He steeled himself at the idea of spending the next several hours in Sansa’s tent—

Sansa's tent, which had no light filtering through at all. She had candles when if she couldn't light up the brazier, didn’t she? And why hadn’t she closed the tent properly?

“Sansa?" He called out, and the beam of moonlight he let through by fully pulling the flap open illuminated a scroll sealed with wax.

The wax was stamped with the Stark direwolf. Jon furtively thought that it looked like Ghost.

"Seriously!?" He exclaimed as he reached out for the scroll when he realized what Sansa being nowhere in sight and leaving a message behind meant.

  
  


_"I'm not going back there alive, do you hear me?"_

  
  


She must've gone to the crofter's village to wait out the war with Lady Mormont. Well, good for her, but had it been so hard to say goodbye? If she thought that he was going to die—

  
  


_Dear Jon,_

_I apologize for leaving without telling you directly, but you never listen to me anyway._

She didn't mean that apology, did she? Lord Stark had once told Jon that when someone was apologetic, nothing they said before the word "but" counted.

  
  


_I might be dead by the time you read this message and if so, know that it would be my own fault and not yours._

  
  


Jon felt rather than made his body walk away from the entrance and drop on a chair, which groaned under his weight. 

He put the scroll aside and distracted himself by lighting a fire to read better. Sansa had used a fairly small piece of parchment but she'd used both sides and the message was in tiny handwriting. Her penmanship was elegant, and so far she hadn't made a single mistake.

His eyes stung as he picked up the pieces of paper she'd used to practice and threw them into the brazier.

If only he'd come to light that fucking fire as soon as she'd left the war tent! He’d wasted so much time there just...brooding! 

He took deep breaths to calm down. 

Maybe Sansa was just being dramatic. She'd been very dramatic as a little girl, he remembered that.

_I'll try parlaying a truce with Ramsay again, this time to save Rickon. You can’t save him, but I just realized that I can. Ramsay wants me back so I'll give him what he wants in exchange for Rickon's safety._

"Fuck!" Jon shouted, immediately walking out of the tent, relying on the moonlight to keep reading as he stomped towards the closest hitching post.

_Smalljon Greyjoy will die instead. I’ll kill him myself if I have to. Then I'll tell Ramsay to improve his reputation in the North by sending help to the Wall. It's foolish to hope that he'll listen to me when you didn't, but he's mad anyway._

Jon choked on air, feeling mad himself. And nauseous. He might throw up if he walked any faster or stopped moving. He might throw up anyway because his sister was about to get killed. Lord Stark had been first, then Robb...now Sansa?

How could she...how could she make such a terrible mistake?

_I understand why you didn't—_

There was a break there, a sentence she didn't need to finish for him to understand. There was a water stain too. With his blurred vision, Jon couldn’t tell if it was from Sansa’s tears or his own.

Icy trails prickled his face.

_Before you leave for battle, know that the knights of the Vale may or may not ride to Winterfell from Moat Cailin. The raven I released is from Greywater Watch but I hold the hope that Baelish will have someone shoot it down on the way there._

That had him almost trip over himself.

Baelish, the same man who'd sold her to the Boltons?!

_Despite suspecting that we might need his help, I rejected it almost a moon turn ago because I didn't want to owe him anything. Even if he does send help don't you EVER trust Littlefinger, Jon._

That went without saying. How dared that snake... that mockingbird, try to insert himself back into Sansa's life? And why hadn't she trusted Jon to at least arrest him whenever she'd last seen him? Last moon turn...but, she'd already been at Castle Black?! Anyway, that man deserved to be tried and executed!

_But don't kill him. He is_ _the only one who can help my cousin Robin Arryn keep his birthright. I can't explain why or how here. Just don’t kill Baelish. Don't demand a trial for Aunt Lysa either._

What about a trial for Sansa herself? Jon didn't care about her cousin or aunt. How could she think that he wouldn't want justice for her?!

_Please. Promise me that you won't hurt my little cousin. He's my family too. Promise me Jon._

“I’ll promise in person,” he whispered as he resigned himself to do as she said.

To think that he'd doubted her love for Rickon...

When he finally approached the horses, his breaths laborious from more than his near run, he saw that there was a commotion.

He almost punched that Hornwood soldier in the face for allowing Sansa to ride away from him so easily. Instead he walked away and isolated himself to finish reading the letter. 

_You are my family too. You are a Stark to me, Jon, no different from Rickon. I need you both to be safe._

At least he no longer felt nauseous from fearing for her own safety.

_I can never thank you enough for making me feel like a Stark too. I always felt like an outsider in our home because I was a stupid little girl, but you've made me feel like I belong in the North. Forgive me for making you feel like an outsider, years ago or recently._

If she forgave him in turn, of course he would. 

_If you see Lady Brienne and if she still wishes to serve me, send her to find Arya and Bran._

_Be safe, Jon._

_Your sister._

He tucked the scroll to his belt without inspecting the tiny square of symbols, then took several deep breaths to focus.

He’d never consciously warged into Ghost before, but he hoped to be quick right away. He just needed to see a reference point to guess where Ghost was leading Sansa.

He was leading her to the other direwolves, of course. Hers was waiting for her.


End file.
